


30 Days...

by notjustmom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Friends to Lovers, M/M, some firsts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 9,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: starting on Day 14...will work forward/back to Day 13, if it happens to work out that way.as inspired by Atlin's post:http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/149555897153/30-day-challenge-sherlock





	1. Comfort

It was just one of those days. 

Nothing was really wrong, not really. But John woke up and saw Sherlock staring up at the ceiling with that look...that look that usually promised nothing good. So, John being John, knowing his detective as he did, called into work letting them know he would not be in; turned both phones off, and whispered:

"Look at me."

"Hmmm?" Sherlock continued to stare at the ever lengthening cracks above him.

"Don't."

"Don't what?" But Sherlock turned towards John and managed a smirk. "Sorry."

John waited.

"Can we just stay - never mind."

"Yes."

John opened his arms and Sherlock rolled into them, tucking his mop of curls under John's chin and entangling his lanky limbs with John's as if making sure John couldn't leave.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."


	2. Fall

Sherlock put his stockinged feet into his shoes, breathed a sigh of relief as he felt his coat wrap around him, as if it were a second skin, tied his scarf neatly around his neck, and slowly drew on his black leather gloves. He nearly flew down the steps, but stopped short as John opened the door.

"Oh, good. You're home. C'mon, John!"

"I'm too tired for a case, Sherlock - I just want to eat some leftovers, maybe take a bath, and -" John looked at the man who stood even taller than usual as he was higher on the staircase; hair perfectly perfect, his blazing eyes dancing, and a smile so genuine that if he weren't already madly in love with the mad bastard, he would kneel before him and offer him his heart without a moment's hesitation. He sighed and knew whatever it was, he would do it, no matter how exhausted he was at the moment.

"Not a case, John, it's the first day of fall, summer is finally over - "

John dropped his keys into his pocket, walked up the three steps that separated them, and offered Sherlock his hand. "A walk in the park, Honeybee? You might want to turn up your collar, love, the breeze is a bit brisk."

"Then some hot cider?" Sherlock took his hand and kissed John's knuckles, earning a soft, sharp inhalation, then a gentle nod.

"Yes, then hot cider." John walked down the remaining steps backwards, as he couldn't bear to turn his eyes away from the man who was now twinkling back at him. He would never tire of Sherlock's almost ridiculous beauty, and the notion that he was loved so fiercely by this brilliant, fearless, yet painfully shy man nearly made him fall to his knees in gratitude. But, Sherlock never asked for dramatic overtures, the tiniest gestures seemed to delight him beyond reason.

John opened the door and watched Sherlock take a deep breath of London on the first day of fall; John heard the traffic, the throngs of people heading home or to the local, smelled the pollution, but Sherlock could see the leaves change, hear the birds sing their evening song and feel the wind ruffle his hair.

"I love you, John."

"I know, love. I know."


	3. Hidden Talent

Once in a while, Sherlock would catch John looking at him, not staring, exactly, it was more... studying him, perhaps trying to memorise his features in case, in case he left again. Usually he shook it off, deleted the notion, but this time, he needed John to know he wasn't ever going to leave again, at least not by his own design.

"John -"

"Hmmm?"

"We need to talk."

The look in John's dark blue eyes almost crushed him. "No. John, no." He dropped from his perch on his chair and knelt carefully in front of John. "Just the opposite, actually. I, uhm, have noticed that since I've been back, you've been watching me closely, studying - memorising me? As if someday, I won't be here? I need you to know, I'm not going anywhere, I'm never leav -"

"Shh." John laid a finger on Sherlock's lips. "I need to show you something. I - you haven't been upstairs since you've returned...I, hmm. Better just to show you."

Sherlock followed John up the few steps, it was slow going, as his knee was still a bit not good, but he needed to know. 

"Close your eyes."

"Wh-" He sighed but closed his eyes.

"Open them."

Sherlock's jaw dropped, the room was covered in sketches, pen and ink studies, paintings - all of him, of them. "When - how, how did I not know?"

"I studied anatomy, in my pre-med course work, naturally, and there was also a drawing class I would drop into once in a while - there was a model -"

"A she, I assume?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, I know, 'balance of probability' " Sherlock laughed to hear his brother's poshly arrogant voice "...but no, you remind me of him somewhat. Made me realise I wasn't as straight as I thought I was...no...nothing happened. He was very straight - "

"...anyway, I learned that I could memorise the bones and muscles better if I drew them out... spent many an hour drawing cadavers. It helped me relax. I stopped after I left Med School, but started up again in Afghanistan, just doodling, sketches on napkins, found some notebooks, did portraits of my mates to send home - stopped when I was shipped back here, couldn't hold a scalpel or a pencil. I - I started again the week I moved in here, once I realised the tremor was essentially gone. But I didn't start drawing you until the day after you - I didn't need to draw you before, because you were always there, uhm, here. I couldn't improve on perfection. When you were gone, it was my way of keeping you alive - after a week or two I realised we had no real snaps of us together, that weren't taken by the paparazzi. That put me in bed for a day or two, until I got up and started drawing us together..."

"You mean, most of these, were from -" Sherlock was wandering from drawing to drawing and stopped suddenly. He pointed to one of two hands, one was John's, sliding a ring on his own, longer, larger -

"John?"

He looked down to see John on one knee holding a small velvet box. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock fell carefully to his knees and nodded. "Yes, of course, John. Yes."


	4. Makeup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> makeup: noun: mā-ˌkəp: the physical, mental, and moral character of a person

At first glance, to an outsider, they may have appeared to be an odd couple; Sherlock, all posh sleek lines topped off by his mop of Byronic curls that were ever dangling over one eye, while John seemed brusquely military, compact and without a bit of nonsense about him.

And yet.

It was John who was the romantic one, he was the storyteller after all; for all Sherlock's eccentricities, it was he who paid the bills, bought the milk, tea and bread, and other necessities - contrary to popular notion, perhaps helped along by John's slight twiddling with the facts. John was the one charged to remember anniversaries - their first kiss, the first time Sherlock mumbled 'I love you' and John was actually conscious enough to hear it, first official date, first time they viewed Doctor Who together...there were so many candlelit dinners that Sherlock was almost positive John was creating anniversaries where none existed, but it made John happy, so he kept quiet as John fed him another bite of linguine.

On crime scenes it seemed John was perpetually physically and deductively a step or two behind, and yet he was the first to jump between Sherlock and any perceived danger; he could read intent in a single glance and react before Sherlock could point out the lingering culprit who had mingled with the crowd. And at home, Sherlock was usually the caretaker, sewer of stitches, soother of bumps, bruises and terrors in the night. He kept watch over John on those anniversaries that they didn't celebrate, but commemorated in silent care of the other.

Never a day passed when they didn't know they were loved and cherished by the other; even if it was a shared kiss over tea, or a text full of ridiculous lovey-dovey emojis, or the simple straightening of a scarf, it was not in their makeup to do otherwise.


	5. Holding Hands

Sherlock blinked at the obnoxious bright light that shined in his right eye, then his left and back again. He tried to push the light away, but found his hand tightly held in John's.

"John? Why - where, oh fu- " He used his free hand to explore the reason for the worst headache he'd ever had and immediately regretted that decision.

"What do you remember, love?" John questioned him quietly, still holding onto his hand, as if he were afraid to let him go.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and sighed. "Case. Got it wrong. For once it was twins, and one of them tried to hurt you - and -"

"You, you idiot, got in the way of a cricket bat, luckily you have a very hard head and she mostly missed, unfortunately when you attempted to avoid it, you lost your balance and cracked your head on the aquarium on the way down."

"Those damn fish..."

John smirked then brought Sherlock's hand to his lips. 

"John?" Sherlock's eyes popped open.

"Hmmmm?"

"You, uhm, kissed my hand, and you, hmmm."

"Called you love? I'm...sorry?" John looked at Sherlock's hand still laying in his.

"Uhm, no. Don't be, I just never knew..."

"Didn't you, though?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered, "I had always hoped...don't let go, please?"

John shook his head as Sherlock went back to sleep. "I won't. I promise."


	6. Date Night

John had an early shift after a case that kept them up for days as usual; Sherlock had managed to collapse on the couch around three in the morning, as usual. John sat in his chair to watch him sleep as he sipped his second cup of tea, as usual. He sighed, managed to find a blank sheet of paper on the disaster of a desk and scribbled a note, which was far from usual. Texting was the way they communicated. Paper...using paper was significant. Seemed like a big step, somehow.

 

3 March 2010 

S-

Angelo's 7ish? Aubergine shirt? Please.

-J

John left the note on the kitchen table, leaning against the microscope, where Sherlock couldn't miss it, as he was in the midst of an ongoing experiment. John still wasn't exactly sure what his flatmate was doing, but it kept him humming happily, and there were no toxic fumes involved, so John went with it. He shoved his feet into his boots, put on his warmest jacket and slipped his hands into the gloves that Sherlock had shyly presented to him on Christmas morning. They were the most beautiful gloves he had ever worn, and they fit as if they had been made for him.

"They were." Sherlock was standing behind him, his voice rumbled in his ear and John felt his breath catch. "I'll see you at seven, then? Properly attired as requested." All John could do was nod. He knew if he turned around at that moment, he would be lost, not to mention late for his shift. 

"See you at seven," he managed to mutter, then John pushed his hat on his head and all but flew down the stairs, without looking back.

John spent a good chunk of the day watching the clock; half of his patients canceled or just failed to show, and by five, the snow was coming down by the truckload. "Figures," he sighed, as they closed the office early, and he trudged home. John pushed the door open and breathed in his favourite lasagne, and, yes, the garlic bread he could live on, given the chance. The flat was dark, save for the roaring fire and a single candle on the coffee table. He knocked the snow from his boots, and took them off, placing them near the fire, then he removed his gloves and placed them on the table by his chair. He turned at Sherlock's voice as he walked into the room.

"Good, you're home early. I was just going to put the food in the oven to keep it warm." He took John's coat from his hand and hung it on its hook.

"How - ?"

"I called Angelo and asked him to deliver something before he closed for the evening. He sent over a candle, too, just in case. And a bottle of wine, I just opened it, needs to breathe a bit unless you want a glass now?"

John shook his head and finally turned to look at Sherlock. As promised, he was dressed in his black suit and aubergine shirt, he had taken care with his curls -

"Mrs Hudson gave me a bit of a trim - I, uhm, wanted to -." He seemed a bit unsure what to say next, and it somehow made John brave enough to take a chance.

"You look amazing, as always," John murmured and slipped a hand into the curls he had only dreamed of touching. He stood at his full height and waited until Sherlock opened his eyes to look at him in that way that he had. Sherlock nodded, granting John permission. Still, John wanted to hear him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, please, John. I want to know, I need to know -" He leaned over him then, and touched John's jaw lightly, before pressing his lips against John's. Their eyes met as they pulled apart slightly, and Sherlock whispered, "Are you hungry?"

"Starving." John managed to breathe out.

"Good. Me too." Sherlock grinned as he walked John to the couch, sat him down, then disappeared into the kitchen, only to reappear in a moment with a plate of garlic bread and a steaming bowl of lasagne with two forks."There is dessert for later -"

They spent the next fifteen minutes feeding one another the hot, cheesy mess, giggling and wiping the other's face as they went. The bread vanished, and soon they had broken down and started on the tiramisu, leaving the wine untouched.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped giggling and he looked at John seriously, as if he were a crucial clue at a crime scene. "So as far as first dates go, how did this rate?"

John kissed him gently and whispered, "definitely in the top three."

Sherlock snorted and kissed him back in a way that sent a shiver through him. 

"Okay, yes, alright, you win. The best first date ever, happy now?"

"Mmmm...ask me tomorrow?"


	7. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade tells Sherlock he's been an idiot in not so many words...

"It's getting a bit ridiculous, don't you think?" Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock was trying to focus on the thing he was missing; there was something about the scene that wasn't making sense. "What is?"

"You and John."

"John...and me?" Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow at the DI.

"Yep."

Sherlock shook his curls which were getting wetter by the minute as the rain picked up. He waved a gloved hand as if shooing a fly."He's dating whatsername from work."

"She dumped him two weeks ago."

"Oh." Sherlock walked around the corpse, trying to see if another angle would help.

"Yeah. Oh."

"No wonder he's been underfoot so much lately."

"Underfoot?"

"Keeps asking me to go to Ang -"

"Uhmhmm...?"

"You think he's trying to -"

Lestrade nodded.

" - a date?"

"Mmm."

"With me."

"He's been pining since the day he shot that cab -"

"Shut up."

"It's time."

Sherlock growled and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Do you want me to solve your case, or not?"

"Fuck the case. It was the boyfriend. You know it, I know it. Take him home. Put him out of his misery. You love him. He loves you."

Sherlock tried to deny his friend's words, but couldn't. "I -"

"Go."


	8. Birdwatching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> went a bit angsty...

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Birdwatching."

"Oh."

Sherlock sat down next to him on the bench and watched John for a moment.

"But, your eyes are closed." Sherlock frowned at his friend and waited.

"Oh. Yeah, maybe it's more, uhm, birdlistening. Could never see them myself. My mum could, Harry could, maybe she still can, not sure though. But I used to be able to pick out their songs. Used to spend hours, just listening. Used to be able to - til I stopped - I just stopped, I dunno, stopped caring. They, Mum and Harry, had lists, every day, they had these little books, kept doing it til -"

"Until?"

"Til Mum got too ill to go out. I had found other things to do long before then, but Harry - she kept it up. When Mum died, a lot of what was good in Harry died with her."

"Damn. I'm sorry, John -" Sherlock tentatively reached for John's hand, flinching when he felt how cold it was. He held John's smaller hand between his two larger ones.

"Twenty years, Sherlock. I really stopped hearing much of anything after she died. Until I met you. You made me want to listen again."

"I love you too, John."

"I know."

They sat together and just listened until darkness fell, then Sherlock helped John from the bench and walked him home.


	9. Rainy Days

They had a routine. On days when they woke up to rain, there was a procedure. There was protocol. And John knew it. Which is why Sherlock was more annoyed than pleasantly surprised when John proposed. Besides, Sherlock didn't need a ring to belong to John. He already -

"Sherlock?"

John was down on one knee, his bad one. He hadn't made tea yet, nor toasted the bread. He was waiting for an answer.

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Why?!"

"Yes. Why? Why do you want to marry me?" Sherlock glared down at him, tea-less, toast-less and John was not in bed cuddling as they always did, after the tea and before the toast.

"Because."

"Nuh - uh."

"Nuh - uh?"

"Because is not an answer." The rumblings of his strop matched the thunder outside their flat.

John pinched his nose then carefully got up. "This is because -"

"Yesssss?" Sherlock crossed his arms.

"No tea."

"Go on."

"No toast."

"And?"

"I'm not in bed cuddling. Shit. Be right back."


	10. Star Gazing

John had worried that Sherlock might get bored in retirement. He thought the detective would miss the noise, the chaos, the chases...but he was wrong.

"John! Come out here! Look! Just look!"

John threw the dishtowel on its hook and followed Sherlock's voice.

"Look, John. Look up."

John walked out into a warm spring evening and looked up to see a clear night sky ablaze in stars, a planet or two and the occasional plane. He felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him and he sighed contentedly as he relaxed against him.

John listened as Sherlock pointed out each constellation, listed every feature of interest, commented on mythology and religion and -

"...but as much as I enjoy viewing the heavens above us, I'd much rather take you to bed right now and watch your beautiful face change as I make love to you."

John blinked, and muttered. "Now I know you are an idiot, I'm not -"

"Yes, John, you are. To me, you are my sun, my moon, my stars, my night sky, my sunrise. Will you come inside with me?" Sherlock kissed his neck, and John shuddered. He was still getting used to this, this undiluted attention that Sherlock used to give to their cases, ash and other random experiments, was now lavished upon him. 

"Give me a minute? Can you just hold me, love? I just want to, I don't know, just feel your arms around me and be still for just a bit."

Sherlock nodded and held him a little tighter. They closed their eyes and let the gentle sounds of their new life embrace them. After a few minutes, the winds picked up and John turned in Sherlock's arms. He looked at the man in front of him, the man who gave up London, the Work, everything he had known, for him, so they could be together in peace.

"Do you know how much I love you, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm?" Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him in surprise. "Yes. Of course I do, John. Of course I know - Oh!"

"What?"

"A shooting star. I've never seen one before. I've never stayed still in one place long enough to really see...not until you. You made me realise I needed to slow down and truly spend time just doing nothing in order to know what is important."

"Let's go inside?"

"Please?"


	11. Sickness

"No."

"But, John -" Sherlock sniffled. "Graham said it was an 8..."

"If it's really an eight, it will still be an eight tomorrow, and he can bring the file and photos over then. But, really, honestly, love, when was the last time an 8 was actually an 8?"

"The uhm, that one...with the, you know..." Sherlock tried in vain to smother a cough.

"You just got home from hospital...because...?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes carefully. "I was an idiot."

"...and...?" John crossed his arms and glared at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"What?" John dropped his arms to his sides and blinked at the idiot wrapped in blankets, propped up on pillows with a warmish cup of chamomile tea on the bedside table.

Sherlock shook his head and regretted it immediately. "Nuh-uhhhh.... aaaaahhhhh -choooo! You heard me, not going to repeat myself." He mumbled miserably before grabbing another tissue from the nearly empty box. "You could at least come to bed and hold me. I miss you. And I am sorry. I - I won't do it again."

John sighed and managed to grin at the surrender in Sherlock's whimper. He slipped out of his robe and muttered, "budge over a bit."

Sherlock groaned, but budged over then rolled into John's arms once John had crawled under the duvet. Sherlock sighed and promptly went back to sleep, hopefully forgetting about the "8." John swore under his breath as Sherlock's phone pinged again.

 

Brother mine, your expertise is required. 

Piss off, Mycroft. You know we just got home, he is unwell to say the least.

Still? How unfortunate. Do try to keep him out of the Thames next time.

Turning the phone off. Now.

 

Sherlock shifted in his arms, sighed, then settled again. John drew him in a bit tighter as he closed his eyes and tried not to think of how close he came to losing his detective just a week earlier. It had been a 5 which swiftly downgraded into a miserable negative 3 when Sherlock went into the Thames fully dressed going after the rat-faced jewel thief turned accidental murderer. Lestrade had gone in after him, and it was almost too late this time, again. John had pushed Lestrade away once the DI had managed to get Sherlock safely back on dry land, and desperately searched for a pulse -

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock grumbled.

"Yeah, fine, almost drown in the Thames, then you get pneumonia -"

"John. I'm fine," as he did a lovely imitation of trying to cough up a lung.

"Uh-huh."

"I said I was sorry."

"I know, just go back to sleep and I'll make you fresh tea, soon. I do love you." John kissed the matted mess of curls that were tickling his nose and Sherlock snuggled back against John's chest, mumbling a sleepy reply before falling back to sleep.

"I know, idiot."


	12. Missing Home

"What did you miss most?" John asked, his eyes never leaving his morning paper.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock looked up from his book, a bit puzzled; he was attempting to identify a plant, from the stem and roots left on the shoe of the latest victim of a serial killer.

"When you were, 'gone', what did you miss most?"

John had never asked about his time away, he seemed to have pushed those years away from him, as if they had never happened.

"What did I miss? Tea. Fresh shirts. Hot showers. You. I missed you most of all."

Sherlock heard something like a whimper, a crumple of newspaper, then a whispered, "just wondered." Then John cleared his throat, folded his paper, laying it aside and asked, "can I make you a fresh cuppa?"

"Please?"

John nodded as their eyes met, and as he passed Sherlock on his way to the kitchen, he placed a single kiss on Sherlock's still slightly parted, questioning lips.


	13. Before They Met

Sherlock started, awakened suddenly, whose dream was it, John's or his own? He looked around and found he had fallen asleep in his chair again, reading? No. No book nearby. Case? Hmmm...no...nothing on the wall, no new papers or photos. John - John was at work, late shift, covering for whatsername...he looked over at John's chair, the one he had fallen into so easily that very first day, it seemed he belonged in it, just as he had somehow slipped so effortlessly into his life. Sherlock considered his existence before that day, and drew a blank; there was really nothing worth considering. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, looked at his watch and knew John would be coming up the stairs any min-

John's familiar tread made his way slowly up the steps; he would be hungry, no, he'd want to take off his coat and shoes - tea, he wants tea. Sherlock flung himself out of his chair and put on the kettle hoping there was one more teabag left.

"How was your day, love? Miss me?" John's arms wrapped around his chest, his fingers already beginning to work on the buttons of the shirt Sherlock had thrown on that morning, absentmindedly putting on the one John had discarded the night before. Ridiculous, as they were completely different builds, sleeves were short on him - but, he had lifted his arm and took a deep breath in, it still carried John's scent, ah...that's how he had spent his day, he had been cataloguing what made John smell like John...he hadn't figured it out to his satisfaction when he had fallen asleep.

"A bit. Hungry?"

"Nope."

"Tea?"

"Uh-uh. I want to get this shirt off of you and take you to bed."

Sherlock sighed as John kissed his neck, then his shoulder; he found that place in the crook of his elbow, where his kisses had long ago forgiven past abuses, and Sherlock was lost. He leaned back into John's strong embrace and whispered, "promise me?"

"Hmmm? Promise you what, love?" John's nimble fingers were now working on his trousers; there was something about letting John take over that put his whirring mind at ease, something the drugs could never completely do -

"Promise you won't ever leave me? I don't know what I would do if -"

"Step out, love." Sherlock stepped out of his trousers and pants and turned in John's arms.

"Promise?" Sherlock gazed into John's dark, twinkling eyes and knew he didn't need an answer in words, it was there in his lover's smile.

"Why would I go, Sherlock, how? My life, my life began the day I met you, don't you know that?"

Sherlock nodded and kissed him gently. "I know, mine too, John."


	14. Siblings/Family Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another bit of angsty-ish

"Is she serious?" As he spotted the two women walking towards him, Sherlock managed to get to his feet after sitting for six straight hours. "I phoned you as a courtesy, John would've wanted me to -"

"I want to see him. Now." Harry crossed her arms and stuck her jaw out. At least she seemed sober, Sherlock sighed, and sat back down in his chair.

"I told her -" Clara started.

"He's still in surgery, Harry, no one can see him yet. Sit down if you are going to stay, turn around and go home if all you want to do is make a scene. I really don't care either way -"

She shocked him by sitting down next to him quietly and taking his hand in hers. "I'm sorry. I should've visited sooner, but..."

"He kept hoping you'd show up at the last minute. I tried to call you, just went straight to voice mail. You are all the family he has left, Harry -"

She bit her lip and shook her head. "We haven't been family for years, Sherlock, you know that. You are all the family he needs or wants. He has made that abundantly clear."

"That's not fair, Harry," Clara muttered as she leaned against the wall opposite. "And you know it. You shut him out when he came home; he nearly died and you rejected him, your own twin. I couldn't believe -"

"Sherlock?" A nurse in scrubs approached them at that moment. "He's out of surgery, it was close, but he will be fine. Wish we didn't see you guys in here quite so often; I'll let you know when you can see him, yeah?" She glanced at the two women and shot him a questioning look.

"His sister and sister-in-law."

"Oh, didn't know. Sorry." She turned on her heel and went back down the hallway.

"And we were just leaving." Harry got up and shoved her hands in her pockets. "He won't want to see me yet. Clara's right. I fucked up - when he needed my help, when he was invalided out, finally was out of hospital... I gave him a phone. A phone. Clara and I were having problems, I had just fallen off the wagon again -"

"You don't have to explain, Harry," Sherlock mumbled, as he closed his eyes.

"Just phone if he asks for me?" She bent down and kissed his forehead. "I'm sorry, but I'm not good -"

"at this kind of stuff?" Sherlock snorted, and he felt the tears come. "Neither is he. Sorry, just tired. Been up for three days." He rubbed his face and cleared his throat. "I'll let him know you were here."

Harry nodded and Clara took her arm as they departed.

Mycroft appeared with a coffee and a brown bag, as if by magic. "I imagine you haven't eaten in days, either, brother mine?"

Sherlock shook his head and took the offered cup and bag. "No lectures, please, Myc?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. Thought you could use the company? I'll leave if -"

"No. Please. Stay?"

Mycroft nodded, and sat down. Sherlock pulled out the sandwich from the bag, looked at it and replaced it.

"So tired, Myc. Too close this time, thought I lost him this time. Can't -"

Mycroft patted his lap and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then blinked and curled up into his brother's arms and fell fast asleep.

"Sir?" Anthea appeared at his side. "The PM -"

"Tell her politely to -"

"Piss off?"

"I'm sorry, Prime Minister; he's in an important meeting, cannot be disturbed."


	15. Wedding

"It really happened."

"Uh-hmmm."

"I am, we are, married."

"Yup."

"You didn't have to carry me -"

"Fifteen, sixteen - if I had to wait for you to - sevennnteen - walk up the stairs, we would be starting our wedding night next Tuesday."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Wasn't my fault."

"Didn't say it was, love. And...it is traditional...over the threshold and all..."

"Thought Mycroft was going to fall over when I promised to 'obey.' "

"Yeah, Greg almost choked on his nicotine gum."

"I did suggest he use a patch, he didn - oh, god. She didn't."

"She most certainly did."

Rose petals covered every inch of their bed, candles were lit, and a bottle of champagne was chilling on the bedside table.

"She has waited a very long time." Sherlock whispered as John helped him sit on the edge of the bed, and knelt down to begin untying his one shoe. (His other foot was in a boot and would be for weeks, that story may make an appearance at a later date.)

"As have we. I am sor -"

"I thought you had promised not to apologise again? It was in your vows, the second sentence, as I recall?"

"Right. And I think you swore no more spare parts in the crisper?"

"Doesn't mean I can't stash them in the freezer - I think I may need help with these trousers - why are you still dressed, and looking at me that way?"

"We so nearly didn't -"

"But we did, John. We did it. Somehow, the universe allowed it to happen. You do know, that I didn't need the ceremony to know how much you love me? Now, please, I want to help you out of that lovely suit you are wearing. Come here."

"Yes, husband."


	16. Glasses

"I don't know..." He put the black frames on again and squinted in the mirror. "How on earth do these idiots expect one to pick out frames if one can't actually see what one looks like?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Mmmm...like those, make you look a bit like Clark Kent..." 

"Who?" Sherlock turned his head sharply, wondering if it was someone to be jealous of.

"You know, alter ego, Superman, Lois Lane...Daily Planet?"

Sherlock shook his head and shrugged.

"Comic book? Super hero...?"

"Ah, another cultural reference...must've..."

"...deleted it?" John laughed and kissed his husband's nose.

"Mmhmm..." 

They spent another two hours trying on frames. Silver made him seem "washed out," the salesperson asserted; round specs made him look too "owlish"; rectangles, "just like my grandfat-" were put back immediately. John's stomach started growling and Sherlock was about to deduce the entire staff of the shop when John snatched up the 'Clark Kent' pair; the very first pair Sherlock had tried on, and slid them into place.

"Perfect." John sighed.

"You're not saying that because you can smell the curry from across the street?" Sherlock muttered, but he was almost a bit peckish himself.

"No. They are definitely you...I'll have to find my copies of the first two Superman movies...you might actually enjoy them...if you get bored, we can always find something to do..."

"I'll take these." Sherlock smiled into John's eyes as he handed the frames to the slightly blushing optician.

"Take away?" John mumbled.

"You read my mind."


	17. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another alternative missing scene after the credits of ASiP...

The first thing Sherlock noticed about John that first day was not the cane, the nearly regulation haircut, or his perfectly straight back; it was the look in his eyes. They had once been confident, unafraid, full of humour; the first time their eyes met, Sherlock saw pain, uncertainty and anger. They were the eyes of someone who had nearly conceded defeat. He knew that look because he had seen those same eyes in his own mirror. 

A day later, he gazed into those same eyes and saw a man who was willing to kill to save him; the eyes glittered back at him, defiant, powerful, most of all, they were alive. Alive and smiling at him. And he knew, he knew he had lost his heart.

 

"Good shot."  
(Thank you.)

"Must've been. Through that window."  
(Least I could do.)

"Are you alright?"  
(Why?)

"Yes, of course."  
(Returning the favour.)

"You did just kill a man."  
(How? What did I do?)

"Yes, that's true. But he wasn't a very nice man."  
(You saw me, and you saved me.)

"No. He wasn't, was he?"  
(I simply observed.)

"And he was a bloody awful cabbie."  
(You did more than that.)

"Yes, yes he was, wasn't he...dinner?"  
(I hope it's not too forward...)

"Starving."  
(Can we just go home?)

 

Sherlock looked down at the man smiling up at him with eyes that held only love and laughter in them, for him.

"How did I get so lucky?" John whispered as he pulled him into a kiss.

As always, John had managed to surprise him. "I was just thinking the same thing. How do you do that?"

"Do what, love?"

Sherlock shivered at the word. "How, what - I don't understand what you saw in me that made you think I was -"

"Lovable? In pain, in need of someone? I knew because I recognised myself, in your eyes."


	18. Shopping

Sherlock usually hated shopping, the people, the rows and rows of stuff, too much data, most of it trivia, nonsense that just clogged up the works; unless he was shopping for John. The first time, it was simply picking up tea and cough drops when John had a slight cold. John's reaction like that of a child on Christmas morning; his jaw dropped and he blinked a few times before he managed to find his voice.

"You went to the shops for me?"

"I - uhm, that is, I did, yes. I heard you coughing last night, and I, uhm, was up early, and I remembered we were out of tea..."

"You thought of me?" John's scratchy voice managed to mumble.

"Of course I did. I do. All the time." Sherlock looked away, trying to think of something else besides the half smile on John's face.

"I'd kiss you right now, if I didn't have this bloody cold."

Sherlock's head spun back around and he whispered."You would? I mean, you would want to?"

"Yes. Yes, I would."

"How about if I just kiss you, instead, uhm, on your forehead, and tuck you into bed."

John nodded and added a bit wistfully, "it would be lovely if you would join me. Only if you want to - "

Sherlock blinked and bit his lip, then slipped out of his robe and slid into bed next to his blogger and they both let out a sigh.

"Better?"

"Much."


	19. Gardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the fall...perhaps a bit angsty with a side of crack.

After he had finished giving Lestrade his statement, John walked back to Baker Street. It was still a mess from the last few days. He laughed as he realised he didn't care anymore. He wondered when he would allow himself to care about anything or anyone ever again. 

He wasn't given much time to consider the thought as Molly showed up at the flat the morning after with an African violet.

"What's this, then?"

"A violet."

"I know it's a bloody violet, Molly. Why are you -"

"I thought it would help to take care of something, since he isn't - shit. I'm sorry. I'll just leave her here and go."

"Her? What's her name?" John mumbled.

"Uhm, Grace."

"Grace the Violet." John snorted.

"She's twelve."

"What?"

"I've had her since around the turn of the century. Do try not to kill it." Molly turned on her heel and made her way down the stairs.

John made himself get out of his chair and walk to the kitchen where Molly had left Grace.

"Hullo then, Grace. I'm John. Sorry if I seem a bit moody. My best friend who never knew he was my best friend went off a roof, uhm, I think it was yesterday, yeah, it was. I'll try to keep you happy, and if you don't mind, I'll talk to you so I don't lose what's left of my mind...yeah...never mind. I've been known to have a bit of a black thumb, so, uhm, anyway. At least no one will be around to experiment on you. Shit. Uhm. Water? No, seems like you have enough. Okay, then. Right. I'm going to bed and sleep for a bit. Then I'll get up and see what happens. See you later, Grace."

 

Two years later, Sherlock was wondering if he was in the right flat when he pushed the door open; John's success with Grace led him to start a few flowering vines; John then tried a few cacti, and finally, Mrs. Hudson suggested he find a community garden somewhere and invest in a good sized plot.

"John?" Sherlock blinked at the plants that had overtaken the mantlepiece, the windows and into his bookcase.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah, I seem to be he."

"Sherlock - Grace, Grace - this is my friend Sherlock. You remember I was telling you about him, the one who died, used to be dead, uhm, what's the story?" John was fussing over Grace's repotting, not looking up.

"Never was dead, faked it, sorry?"

"Yup, definitely him." John sniffed and finally shot Sherlock a glance. "Fer chrissakes, sit down before you fall down. Hungry?" Sherlock collapsed gently onto the couch with a sigh.

"A bit."

"You look like shit."

"You look remarkably unchanged, perhaps a bit more content, even?"

"Mmmhmmm..."

"Girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"Grace."

"Grace?" 

"Molly. Molly decided I need something to take care of after you - she's a rather nice middle aged African violet."

"Ah....and the others?"

"Lessee - there's Julia, and Beatrice, those are the vines; the cacti, I named them all Mycroft. He's still a right prickly bastard."

"Damnnnn...don't make me laugh." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, and John heard the pain in his voice.

"Ribs?"

"Mmmm...amongst other things." 

"Budge over."

"Why?"

"You should rest, thought I could hold you, if you wanted, maybe keep the dreams away?"

"Won't Grace get jealous?" Sherlock whispered as he felt John's arms settle around him.

"Nope. She's too much of a lady. Julia, however, might need some talking to."

"Right - she's the aggressive looking one. On the left."

"Quite so. Haven't lost your touch."

"Easy enuf, my dear Watson."

John shook his head and held the trembling, half-starved man in his arms.

"I love you. Sorry I never told you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.africanvioletsforeveryone.net/how-not-to-kill-an-african-violet.html


	20. Gifts

The last gift he remembered with fondness was his first long coat; it was either for a birthday or a graduation, something, he couldn't quite recall. It was the last time Mycroft had truly smiled at him with something close to what he imagined brotherly affection was.

So, it was with some trepidation that he picked up the rather amateurishly wrapped package on the coffee table. 

"It won't bite you."

"What's it for?" Sherlock continued to eye it suspiciously, turning it, shaking it, attempting to deduce the contents.

"No reason. I saw it in a window, and I thought of you. Hasn't anyone just given you a gift for no reason?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not as such."

"Go ahead. Open it."

He slid his thumb under one flap, then the other, taking care not to rip the brightly coloured paper. John smiled and waited patiently while Sherlock folded the paper neatly before opening the wooden box. Inside was an intricately made toy, a beautifully painted pirate ship of wood that moved in a circular pattern with each crank of the handle, tiny enough that Sherlock could hold it in one of his enormous hands.

"I had, or rather, Mycroft had such a toy when we were children. When I was five, I stole it from his desk and took it apart to see how it worked. I was fascinated by the gears, they were so small, so delicate, and yet they could move a ship. Of course no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put all the pieces back together the right way. He knew I had loved it as much or even more than he had, and thought it was punishment enough that it no longer worked." He blinked back tears, and looked up to see John smile at him.

"Mycroft once told me that you had wanted to be a pirate."

"Yes, I thought if I were a pirate, I'd have a crew, and I wouldn't be lonely anymore. Pirates always have mates. But, I'm no good on boats - I get seasick, so that didn't quite go as planned. Thank you, John." Sherlock put the gift down and kissed John gently.

"You are quite welcome, love."


	21. Kisses

John doesn't have Sherlock's Mind Palace; but he never forgets a kiss.

His first was Cecily, he was five, she was seven. He didn't understand what the big deal was, she said tongues were involved somehow, but they giggled too much to figure it out.

Then there were a few girls he took to movies; Susie, a willowy blonde who liked to make out to Bond movies, she hadn't minded Brosnan, but her favourite was Connery, at twelve she was already a genius, she knew exactly what to do with her tongue, and there was little giggling. After Susie, it was Glenda he took to see those ultra fluffy, but well-written romantic comedies, she had golden eyes and flaming red hair and a temper that matched his, but the make-up kisses were....

...nothing close to what he and Sherlock shared. He barely remembered their first one. It had taken entirely too long, and it was almost too late, on a case that was merely a five and a half. Sherlock had been fighting a cold, but was bored out of his wits, and John wasn't far behind, so they jumped when Lestrade said 'jump, boys.' By the end of the case, Lestrade had the suspect cuffed and taken away, but not before she had pulled a knife on John and Sherlock stood in her way. John remembered his mad flatmate's words far more clearer than the kiss itself. "You'll have to go through me." She shrugged and obliged him. John had caught him as he fell, lowered him gently to the ground, and held onto him, trying to keep him conscious, and pressed his own scarf against the wound to help staunch the blood. 

"Why, you idiot?"

"Because I love you."

"Oh."

John had tears rolling down his face when his lips brushed against Sherlock's. He recalled a mix of salt, iron, and the herbal tea and digestive that he had managed to get into the detective before Lestrade's summons. 

There had been thousands of kisses since that one, but John could still feel the electricity, the sense of loss before he had even really understood what he'd had all along in that one kiss that nearly wasn't. He knew he had finally found home in those lips.

"John?"

"Hmmm?" John looked up over his specs to see Sherlock watching him closely.

"I remember it too."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"For taking so long, for waiting til it was almost too late -"

"I was afraid too. I didn't know, and I couldn't deduce it. No. That's not exactly true." He stood up and crossed the room in four steps. "I couldn't trust myself, I had never felt anything like what I felt for you, for anyone else. Not once. I always knew from the first time I met you-"

John threw his paper down, and drew Sherlock into a kiss. "That's..."

"4,216..."

"That few?"

Sherlock nodded and offered John his hand. "Shall we make up for lost time?"

"I've got nothing else on at the moment."

"Good."


	22. Work

Once they had stopped being idiots and finally admitted their mutual feelings of whatever 'it' was, John would probably say 'undying love'; while Sherlock would shrug, nod at John and mumble, 'he knows, and that's all that matters,' they found their relationship did not take 'work', as some people would constantly claim. 

Sherlock found, much to his surprise, that John loved him for everything he was, quirks included; however, he did try to be more aware of where his experiments ended up and he occasionally shopped for milk, even though he found shopping inane, he did it for John with little grumbling.

And John - he understood his love's oddities to be no more than an expression of his difficult relationship with the rest of humanity; he saw himself as Sherlock's navigator, but he never saw it as work, though others may have wondered how he put up with the growling misanthrope. 

Somehow, their jagged bits matched up; there were days when John's nightmares would have left him exhausted and unable to function, if not for Sherlock's presence. The detective would simply cocoon around his blogger, let him feel his way out, and on the days he needed a gentle kick in the arse to get moving, Sherlock knew exactly how far to push. Again, he didn't see it as work, just a part of loving John. On this particular morning, Sherlock had risen early, run out to the shops so he could buy what he needed to disinfect the kitchen before making tea and toast. When he returned, John hadn't moved an inch, and Sherlock knew he needed a bit of a nudge.

"John?"

"Hmmm? Go 'way - need to sleep."

"Nope, you are going to get up, go to the loo, throw on your robe and slippers and have tea with toast - I found that jam you love, had to fight a lady over the last jar, she nearly got it, but I whispered something about her husband into her ear and she glared at me once she recovered from the shock, but grudgingly handed it over."

"You didn't."

"Did." Sherlock grinned that evil grin that always made John giggle. "Get up."

"All right, all right..."

Sherlock kissed his nose and John laughed. "How you know - never ceases to amaze me."

"It's because I love you."

"I know, love. I know."


	23. Hair, Love and Cuddles...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a smashup of three words...they seem to fit together.

Sherlock wasn't vain about his hair, in fact, his wild mess of locks frankly drove him a bit around the bend...at least it did until he met John. 

John was straight. Well. Mostly. But the day he walked into the lab with Mike and saw the tall, angular beauty with the long, raven curls, he knew he was a goner. 

At first, Sherlock was hesitant about starting a relationship, he had never met anyone who could put up with him as John could, so he started slowly, requesting the occasional cuddle while John watched his matches, or the insipid Bond movies that he was so fond of. He did wonder the first time John ran his fingers through his curls - if they were what John loved, not him -

"Don't be an idiot."

Sherlock blinked up at John and looked for any easy tells. He saw only a slight smile and a twinkle in his eyes that Sherlock knew was for him alone.

"I love you, too."

"Shh. Best part coming up. Kidding. I'm kidding. I know."


	24. Flower Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a sneak peek into the future in the Big Adventure series and a part of 30 days...

"Now, Allie - you have to understand, your Uncle John is much better at making these than I am, he taught me, but he's busy making you and me and your mum and da lunch, so he put me in charge while your parents are having a bit of alone time. They really are just taking a nap. You know how busy they are...there, one more pink one, and voila! Your da needs to remember you are on vacation with me, lace and frills are fine in their correct place -"

"Shhh -" Donovan stopped Andy from interrupting Sherlock's monologue, as he placed the tiny crown on the two year old's dark curls.

"Unca Lock?" 

"Yes, love?" Sherlock looked down at her with a smile that was invented for her. He caught a glimpse of Donovan and Andy but focused on the intense face, a remarkable blend of both her parents, strong, soft and knowing.

"When I get bigger, can I live here all the time?" She reached up and grabbed one of his curls to pull herself up.

"You'd like that?"

"Yeth. I love you and Unca John and Alex and Nico and -"

Sherlock's heart fluttered and he sighed. "But wouldn't your mum and da miss you?"

"Oh, they would live here, too, you silly goose." She smiled, put her hands on his cheeks and kissed his nose. "Silly goose."

"Come on you two, lunchtime." Donovan muttered, Allie squealed as she saw her parents grinning at her.

"Unca Lock and I have a secret way, follow us! Come on, Unca Lock, get up, get up!!"

"All right, Allie, all right, I'm right behind you."


	25. Balloons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for καρδιά μου <3

"Balloons? Really, Molly?" Sherlock yawned. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at his phone, 11 in the morning, he had finally fallen asleep a half hour before, then Molly had cheerfully banged on John's door with a dozen mylar balloons.

"He likes balloons and I thought it would cheer him up when he wakes up -"

"It was just his appendix..." Sherlock sighed. "not a case, just a useless organ, almost -"

"Not your fault, Sherlock."

"I should've noticed something wasn't right -"

"He's a doctor, he knew, but he always ignores everything about himself, because he's-"

"Because he's taking care of me?" Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I was going to say, 'he's a doctor and they make terrible patients.'"

"Yeah, we do. I'm sorry, Sherlock - oh...Molly, they are beautiful." John blinked at the shimmering, dancing balloons that made tiny coloured lights flash brightly against the institutional beige-ish greyish murkiness.

Sherlock had to admit they were a welcome distraction, and they did make John smile, so he stopped fussing and quietly excused himself to get some coffee.

"Sherlock-" John tried to apologise again, but Sherlock shook his head, they were both arse at apologies, especially when none were necessary.

"John, I know - I'll be right back, just need to stretch and get some more coffee-like substance." He bent down and kissed him gently. "I'll be right back."

After the door shut behind Sherlock, Molly sat down in the empty chair. "He's not angry, he just got scared. He's used to you being the strong one. He loves you, you know, he doesn't know what he will do if -"

"He's not going to lose me."

"You need to tell him that, he finally realised last night how important you are to him, and he's certain you'll leave him -"

"Molly - I. am. not. going. to. leave. him. I. LOVE. HIM."

"John - oh."

"I'll tell him, when we're not all cooped up here. Promise."

"Okay. Fine. Good. Damn. I have to go to work, just wanted to make sure -"

"I'm fine."

"Okay. I'm off." Molly grinned at him as she tied the balloons to the chair. "They should last -"

"Forever and a day?"

"Something close to."


	26. Cooking

It started slowly as things did with them. And really, if you asked them both, it started as an experiment that first morning.

It was an accident, even John had to admit that, though he wasn't sure what exactly Sherlock thought would happen to the toaster if he - well - never mind, best not go there. In the end, John was just happy they had remembered to replace the old fire extinguisher; and Sherlock spent a happy few hours researching the newest toasters online, finally deciding on a model that could toast eight pieces ("Why would we ever need eight at once?" A rhetorical question John knew would be ignored.) and did everything but wash the dishes. It even came in aubergine. It was perfect.

Sherlock even set his alarm to go off early so he could be the first to use it, and when his phone buzzed that morning, it was like Christmas in July, he was so excited. He jumped out of bed, put on the kettle, opened the box and spent an hour reading each and every instruction, in English, Chinese, Spanish and French, shaking his head over some of the mystifying translations. At last, he plugged it in, and placed a single slice of whole grain bread into the first slot and pushed the lever. Eventually he managed to toast 32 pieces by the time John padded into the room. Plate after plate of different shades of toast from light to charcoal; sourdough, rye, seven grain, cinnamon swirl - even a couple slices of Mrs. Hudson's gingerbread that was way back in the freezer from the Christmas party, decorated every empty surface of the kitchen and front room.

"So, it works?" John muttered as he made himself a cup of instant.

"Seems to. Jam?"

"Please?"

 

From there, to John's astonishment, Sherlock began making his own bread, moved on to pasta, then he bought a crock pot, and spent hours pouring over recipes that he could put on in the morning and not worry about. He had searched until he found a pot that matched the toaster and the standing mixer, and was completely programmable. John shook his head, but happily tucked into Sherlock's version of Shepherd's pie after a long three day case.

"You're amazing." John sighed.

"And you've gained -"

"Don't say it."

"Six, no, seven pounds?"

"It's about five, and you?"

"Don't ask -"

"It's sexy."

"What is?"

"This cooking thing - it's very, uhm, hot."

"Really?"

"Uhmhmm...pass the bread?"


	27. Alternative Universe

They somehow slip seamlessly into any time period or verse; two idiots, one not quite as tall as he seems, the other a bit shorter than average, both brilliant in their own way, each necessary to the other, though it's rarely spoken of, that necessity would show weakness neither can bear to reveal. And yet...

And yet. When they meet, however they meet, at a coffeeshop, a pub or in the more traditional lab setting, they know. Of course they do. The deep blue(or brown) eyes meet the magical green ones and they begin their dance, the questions and answers, they already know, they've been down this road a few times now...

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Inquires the taller of the two, and of course, it goes on from there, as it always does. Perhaps one day, it will turn out differently.


	28. Animals

Perhaps it was because they hadn't had the room or time to have any pets when they lived in their rooms at Baker Street; John always grumbled as Sherlock added one more kitten or stray to their menagerie, but he was the one who named them, cuddled them when they needed a cuddle and he was always the one who took them to the vet for shots or checkups.

At last count, they had four dogs, including one very active puppy, three cats; two who lived in the barn, and one who seemed to live at the end of their bed, John could never remember seeing her anywhere else, though he knew she had to get up once in a while to eat and take care of business. They also seemed to always have a rabbit or two, and the deer inevitably ended up in their gardens, no matter what new 'guaranteed' deer-proof system Sherlock had created, they managed to get past it. John swore that he could see them smirk a bit each spring, and though he kept it to himself, he appreciated the idea that Sherlock was bested by these beautiful animals time after time, they kept him honest, it seemed. 

And of course, there was the constant hum and buzz of the bees. John spent hours just watching Sherlock take care of them; he would have long, detailed conversations with the swarming critters, and they seemed to answer him in their way. John shook his head as he heard his husband tell the bees stories about their old cases, both the solved and unsolved - the patience and dedication, the simple love he had for the tiny insects sometimes surprised him, though he knew it shouldn't. John remembered the same care Sherlock had taken with him, so many years before.

"Dinner!" John yelled from their back door, and he felt his heart race as those iridescent eyes looked up at him. Still. After all this time.

"Coming, just give me five minutes? Redbeard! Dinner!" Their russet coloured puppy came bouncing past the hives, and into the warmth of the kitchen. Sherlock followed shortly afterwards, pausing to place a kiss on his husband's lips before he went inside to clean up.

"Love you."

John nodded and whispered back, "Love you, too." He looked up at the darkening sky and once again thanked the forces that allowed them to exist together so peacefully, then went inside and closed the door.


End file.
